


Midas

by silkinsilence



Series: Femslash February 2020 [8]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22764811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍Angela has to believe that Amélie isn’t beyond saving, for both of their sakes.‍
Relationships: Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: Femslash February 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621666
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Midas

She’s late.

Night presses against the windows of the hotel room and Angela sits alone with the lights dimmed and her thoughts turned to similar darkness. She waits like she always waited as a child for her next foster family, with dread and uncertainty and, no matter how she tries to quash it, the smallest bit of hope.

Perhaps this time Amélie will come with her rifle, or she will come with other Talon soldiers, or she will come not at all. In the comfortable chair by the window, Angela hugs her knees to herself and thinks of Amélie’s blank eyes and long hair and her scars.

She has told herself so many times that she needs to stop playing God, but here she is, again and again, like any of her medical knowledge is a match for a woman psychologically undone.

Even though she’s waiting for it, the tap on the window catches her by surprise. Why can’t Amélie ever use the _door_? She unfolds herself and leans forward to look through the glass. As always, she’s taken aback by the sight of golden eyes peering back at her. Amélie hangs spiderlike on the outside of the building, and Angela hurries to open the window to let her in.

When she’s managed it, Amélie swings inside and recoils her grappling hook. She avoids looking at Angela. Her mouth is set in a grimace. All of these things are customary, but all the same they…hurt.

“Ziegler.”

“Amélie,” she says quietly. Amélie flinches and glares out of the corner of her eye. She hates being called that, but Angela refuses to call her anything else.

“It wasn’t…too hard for you to come?” she asks.

Amélie takes to walking through the room, inspecting everything with those piercing eyes. Her hair swings behind her in a long sleek ponytail. She is wearing all black, from a turtleneck to the tight dark pants that flatter her legs. Angela’s gaze lingers and she hates herself for it.

Maybe she really does want to help Amélie. Maybe she believes that something can be done. Or maybe she’s still just a stupid starstruck young woman, infatuated with the beautiful and graceful wife of a co-worker, unable to forget about the single illicit kiss they shared one evening a lifetime ago.

Angela gets older, tries to move forward, but whenever she looks down her feet are still mired in the past.

“It was easy. I am generally free to do as I like, provided I perform as necessary,” Amélie says curtly. She finishes her inspection and then finally turns to look at Angela. Suddenly conscious of her awkward spot hovering next to the window, Angela sits down on the bed.

“Have you been, ah, re-conditioned since we last saw each other?” It is easier to ask if she thinks of herself as a doctor, Amélie her patient, and the question a routine one.

“Yes,” Amélie rasps. She steps toward the bed. Now that she has started looking at Angela, she does not look away. “I visit you and then they reassemble me.”

Angela feels sick, a familiar feeling. She has acquired more details than she ever wanted regarding exactly the things Talon’s scientists do to their Widowmaker.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, useless words.

Amélie leans forward and then folds herself onto the bed. Her face is blank as she stares up at Angela. She’s like a cat, making herself comfortable, in constant need of more rest. Angela dares to reach out a hand and gently stroke Amélie’s hair. She allows it, though her gaze remains empty and horrible.

“Why do you keep coming?” Angela asks, unable to help herself. She immediately regrets it. If Amélie did not come, if she decided that the inevitable pain was not worth it, it would leave a hole in Angela that she would be unable to fill. She has come to count on these trysts as her own perverse human contact. Unlike Amélie, she is allowed to have whims and goals of her own. But somehow all those things have never gotten her truly close to another person.

Amélie holds her gaze and then holds out one arm in a request. Angela shuffles forward at once and takes the other woman into her arms. Amélie’s hair is soft on her fingers. She feels her breathing. There is no warmth, but she is used to this.

“I thought you could help me,” Amélie says. Her voice is muffled in Angela’s shoulder. Then she’s shifting awkwardly under Angela’s arms. Angela closes her eyes and breathes in and out. Amélie smells of sweat and, faintly, rubbing alcohol.

The knife presses against the side of her neck. The blade is colder than Amélie. Angela jerks back far enough to see Amélie’s face.

Still so blank.

“Have you helped me, Doctor Ziegler?” she asks. The knife digs in. Angela can just see the gleam of steel out of the corner of her eye. It has not broken skin.

Angela doesn’t answer because she doesn’t have an answer.

“Gérard was beautiful when I was done with him,” Amélie says. There is something in her face now but it is more disturbing than the emptiness. It is like rapture. “So much blood.”

Angela is thinking about an autopsy report she read and a corpse she saw in passing. She saw photographs of the bedroom, too. Red and red and red.

“You can do whatever you want,” she whispers.

She does not really want to die. Her heart is thudding its protest in her ribcage and her breath is coming too fast. But if Amélie kills her here and now, there will be no more waiting and no more awful wondering. No more silence. No more failure.

Neither of them move. They look at each other, golden eyes and blue. Amélie breathes so slowly, so irregularly. The knife is no longer so cold against Angela’s skin.

“I was not made to want,” Amélie says, and her voice breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated!


End file.
